You Know I Own You
by D-I-WaRrIa
Summary: The Titans never really were in control. It's bittersweet, but c'est la vie. They're in capable... evilly corrupt capable hands. Please review. Warnings of language, scenes of a sexual nature, one-sided slash and overall dark dealings. You were warned
1. Be a hero

_Thank you._

It wasn't a term that he was accustomed to use; it had never fluttered freely from his tongue before. Though he said thank you carelessly to his teammates, he never truly appreciated the sentiment. Sentiments and requests such as please, may I, after you, I care and I will. They were for normal sensible people. Normal sensible people did not subject their children to being part of a charade, no matter how real they try to make it. Normal sensible people do not keep promises that they have any power over. Normal sensible people do not parade around in flamboyant costumes with the mind set of saving people from a fate that they cannot control. And above all, such people do not go solo and find other delusional individuals to follow in one's footsteps, dancing in the brink of morality and maintaining the façade of strength and invincibility.

Knowing this, he had two reasons for continuing this dance. In all necessity, the show must go on, and before that criminal had even thought of the idea, they were already marionettes to society's whim. Parade, show, protect, and win. Be perfect, be extraordinary. Be something everyone else wants to be but knows they will never succeed.

Be a hero.

Be someone inspirational. Anyone could tell that he was. Little boys wore his trademark uniform; little girls felt safer knowing that he was around. Teenagers and grown up a like all drew strength from him, and though he did not possess any supernatural powers, he constantly felt that persistent tug on his soul from his teammates; all craving a portion of his spirit, his backbone, his honour. All counting on him. All depending on him. Then it hit him.

Who the hell could he depend on?

Who would be there so that he could draw strength for tomorrow?

He had been in this predicament before. This sense of disillusion. It gnawed on his skull like a parasite. Engraved tooth marks and knocked on the cracks creating that forever present headache. Everyone's voice held an air of disappointment, and every confident action he made was mirrored intimately with an act of limitation. He was leader, but not sole protector. He was a confided in, but not the only confidant. A shadow flashed and carried a sinuous shrill wind. The adrenaline pumped and pulsed through his veins. He recognised that call. Foreseeable, inevitable, the exact place, waiting... and now the wait was over. He dared himself constantly and he never could disappoint himself.

He walked through the fire.

He was the only person to wear his soul.

But his friends tried to douse out that fire and his teammates tried to call him a liar. Even with one of them witnessing his turmoil first hand. He could not fathom why he had such an energetic desire for betrayal. Destruction and immoral acts gave him his purpose, his purpose to set things right so that the rest of the world could go on with the show, to carry on the charade.

A deep breath and a meticulous thought pattern separated them.

A fine line.

So thin that it rivalled that of a black widows.

However, no clandestine mistress had lured him away from his cause. He rocked on the balls of his feet before leaping at the clap of thunder. No lightning struck the night and he landed blind. But his harsh landing did not make his legs pause or his adrenaline rush falter. Instinctively, he followed that surreptitious shadow. Like a vampire, he hunted that source of blood. A loose stone. A smashed window. An open door. And a close fist.

"You're late."

_Hey! C'est la vie!  
Remember me? I made you,  
Dressed and trained you._

That fist was closely followed with a knee and a flexed foot, covered in stainless steel. A mound of skin fills with purple ink on his left rib. Defiance races through and he roars into life, launching attacks left, right and centre. Despite his efforts, none of them make a mark and the only one on target is caught easily within the superior grasp. The master didn't have to utter a word, the same word was pressing against their lips.

Sloppy.

And the juvenile knew it. That is what he had become; it was imprinted on all his movements. Last fall he was able to land a blow, create that bruise that took months to heal. Even his signature moves were off centre. Wordlessly, his master planted more seeds of anarchy, scratching deeper, shoving his gloved fingers under his skin. Maintenance work was always a delicate art. They goaded his skin to toughen, for the muscles in and around his heart to harden and pump more robustly. It was impractical for his creation to be less than imperfect. He had to carry on this charade on the right side of the law. But that was not to be the path that his life permanently operated on. He was made for decadence, dressed in corruption and trained in the malicious arts.

And he was so bad that he was brilliant.

A true wolf in sheep's clothing.

The onyx vulture soaring with pearl doves. Obsidian, agate, jasper and jet failed to twinkle and faded into the background of his numb black mind. His friend's became just names and those names became nouns and the word friend just became a word that was duly erased from his vocabulary. Morals that were forthright beliefs became idealistic fancies, those fancies drowned in an ocean of disdain; beliefs became a shallow husk of what they once were and the word moral transformed into a lesson and gained a new perspective. Right and wrong were just annoying utterances and a command was a duty that needed to be fulfilled. A reflex nurtured with the highest respect. No questions asked.

"Will you destroy all that you hold dear? In order to serve me, you must let go of your past."

A solemn nod.

"In order to serve me, you must shatter your pretence of justice. Sever all relationships. Apprentice?"

"I'll do as you say."

"Good boy."

* * *

¡Hola! I know it has been months since I have even looked at this site, but I felt that I owned people and my imagination. In case you've given up on me, I will update and finish Raindrops on Roses and Kind Ice. This little rendition here is just to get my imagination a break from all the exams and coursework and deadlines. Inspired by Shinedown's 'I Own You', I will be doing a part on each titan.

If you review, I will actually love you forever. Really sorry for my absence without explanation.

D-I-WaRrIa

(Standard Disclaimer applies.)


	2. Be a man

_Be a man._

It was a phrase that he had heard time and time again; from friends and enemies, from family members and outsiders. Who were they to tell him that he needed to grow up? That he needed to further his personal intellect and development? To what purpose? He had the responsibility of an entire city on his shoulders… and more times than he could count; the fate of the world. He had to prove himself, he could not just let them berate him with their expectations and have none for himself. It just wasn't right, wasn't fair…

But then again, was life?

He remembered his mother. All men are supposed to love their mothers and dislike their fathers by Freudian theory and damn it all he was one to follow the crowd. It's how he ended up being a hero, gaining all this responsibility and fans because he was a reject… But how did he become a reject? He frowned regretfully at the memory and hoped that one day he would be able to purge it from his system. He was the prince of popularity. Well loved, well treated and well provided for. He had everything going for him… everything… Yet, he disobeyed his mother… only on one occasion. That's when he lost her.

He slapped himself, hard.

_What the hell are you doing? Are you thinking about the life that you lost and that cannot recapture?_

_Do you enjoy pain? Do you enjoy suffering? _

_You are an insignificant human that cannot be defined as being a man!_

_But then again… You aren't fully human and therefore cannot ever hope to be a man. _

That thought made his blood run cold. As well as the electricity in his circuitry. How he loathed that pathetic excuse for a teacher. All he could ever teach was pain and suffering and hate and angst and deprivation and servitude… _Servitude._ His eyes squinted in disgust. He would not allow the memory of his ancestors, those who worked so _hard_ for freedom to be decimated by this manipulative gimp. He would have to press on harder. To make sure that he had put his point across. To make sure that there wouldn't be any more mistakes concerning that discernable son of a bitch. He had already proved himself to be worthy for the rite of manhood. Now, it was time to show that he has that rite firmly imprinted on the flesh of his chest… even if it was covered in metal. No matter. Technology had a way of serving his purpose. The image inducer ring proved to be the ultimate escape from his metal exterior… in one sense but not the other.

He trudged down the wickedly familiar path in the drizzle, on towards to the darker side of the moon. The black market. Although he hated the fact that 'black' was the colour to describe it, it made him feel strangely… welcome. It was his decision to dance with this particular devil… But technology was his life and if it helped orphans in Africa, he was all for it. Though, it did strike him as odd… Why would this, arguably, criminal mastermind would want to help those that can help themselves but do not have the means to. It was so weird and profound a cause that he had found himself swept up in the sacrificing a part of himself and accepting help from the greater of two evils for the plight of the greater good. Maybe it was an omen. But he had always had this chill run down his spine as his approach the barrier night after night. As soon as his crossed over, that chill turned into a thrum of caution, then a jolt of frantic fear… and then it vanished as soon as it appeared.

A very strange regular phenomenon.

_It's a trap, so don't ask,  
__It's a shadow on your back. _

Methodically, he entered the password, went through all the security checks without any delay, completely at ease, completely comfortable. Counting out his paces mentally, he reached the main door that housed his nemesis, Brother Blood. He was in conference with other officials from the black market. His and Blood's technology were helping many exploiters, especially the pirates of Africa. However, aiding this questionably demonic forces has benefited many Africans… it was just that the news liked to portray the more morbid side of life to make people give to charity so that they could line their pockets.

"Ah, Stone… I would like to have a word with you privately, after you have finished you work on the production line of course."

"Blood." He nodded solemnly and continued on to the production line of ex-convicts that could not obtain work anywhere else. His presence, oddly, boosted morale amongst the men and women and even the juveniles who refused to return to the corrupt orphanages and had decided to live the street life. It was working for them. This shadow operation worked for everyone who knew about it and for everyone who didn't.

"Stone."

It was that time of night. Around three in the morning where his system always demanded that he shut himself down and rest what was left of his biological body. Since he was now effectively leading a double life, he had programmed himself to fall into an incredibly deep sleep that bordered on being in a coma. Nothing disturbed him from his slumber… and that's the way he need it. In order to continue… he needed to be put into a coma for three hours every other night.

"I'm not your lapdog Blood. This is as much my business as it is yours and anyone else who contributes to this joint."

"You still have a great deal of respect to learn."

"This is the only semi-respectful thing that you have done!"

"And you will talk when it is your turn!"

Punch. Kick. Thump. "I already told you Blood. I am my own man. I can handle myself and I choose to remain here to help those orphans and I will be _**damned **_if I let you take advantage of that." Tensions always ran high before his allowed himself to slip into a coma. It worked that way. Blood no longer knew how to push his buttons because he had become a man. Or so he thought. Annoyed, drained, he went to his table and put himself into a coma.

Blood had combed through his blue prints. Every inch of his circuitry. Knew all thirty-five weak spots that he had. Had tempted him great achievements, academic, physical and personal. Knew every iota of knowledge about him and all the knowledge that was inside him. Knew every cell in his body… his white blood cell count. How many volts it took to turn him on. And yet, as he leered across that taunt, sleek plated metallic build that was covered in that sinful optical illusion of delectable, tawny-chocolate, synthetic skin… it was the only time he actually wanted to _play_ bad headmaster.

Every, single, movement counted towards him optimal pleasure and satisfaction. He had definitely showed him that he could be a man… and a man he was… in body. That was the only thing that appealed to him. That rectum_. _That ass. He had to possess the most smack-able gluteus in the world. Blood almost bit his lip in anticipation. This dirty extracurricular activity that he divulged in, without consent or permission from the parents… but wait… he didn't need any… his student was a _man_ now. He walked; talked, thought and made decisions like a _man_… therefore… he must accept all due consequences and decadent detentions.

Exposed. Unconscious. Writhing. Still. Panting. Barely breathing. Stroking. Not feeling. Thrusting. Not responding. Moaning. Not hearing. Coming. Not going anywhere…

_It don't burn. It don't bleed.  
__Still it cuts you at the knee. _

…Spent and sated. Rejuvenated in sleep…

His slumber was over. Groaning at his usual stiffness that usually accompanied him when he lay on that particular table. He could never understand why that dull ache always persisted. He glanced down at his knee, where Blood had perfectly placed a kick that knocked a few bolts and cybernetic shards off. He growled. He carried on the charade. Walked out of the place as if nothing untoward had happened… that jolt of frantic fear had returned, alerting him that something must be wrong. But as always, he ignored, coped and dealt with these strange shadows of sensations and the frantic fear simmered into a thrum of caution and then eventually dwindled into the predominant chill, until it died altogether.

"Another night, my student."

One day he would realise… that he was _everything_ that Blood had taught him to be.

* * *

Who wants some? This is a very dark rendition of Cyborg and he is defiant and will forever be.

Any questions? Drop a review and I will explain all. Any genuine reviews… please send me one and I'll treat you all to Beast Boy… or Raven… I'll let you decide…

Hope you enjoyed it. Standard disclaimer applies and I do not own Shinedown's 'I Own You'.

D-I-WaRrIa


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